@nwbar Dear Bwog… I never believed this would happen to me…

Last break, I was walking home to my dorm with my head hung as low my supply of fresh underwear. I had no place to lay my weary head except a Hewitt Trouble (yes, a triple as a double – to answer your question, the pun is worth it). I was sitting in Butler doing dejected sweatpants-and-ponytail Russian conjugations when I saw her:

She was wearing a public safety uniform, tenderly spreading a tarp over the grass. Transplanted grass, taken from somewhere far away, and then gradually left to die from neglect — I empathized with the grass. And so I did a foolish thing. I walked out there to stop her.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Hey!”

“Yeah?”

“You can’t do that.”

“Do what? I gotta cover the grass up.”

“You can’t! It’ll die!”

“Sorry.”

“But it’ll die! And if it dies… I’ll die.”

She laughed. I sniffed. But something in her eyes — the red flag said no, but her eyes said yes.

Beneath the tarp, there was only us and the dying grass. Who knows how many tourists walked by as we explored each other’s bodies – no card swipe access, no only-four-friends-at-a-time-signed-into-East-Campus, only the green flags of our heart.

I don’t know how long we kept it up. Surely someone heard – maybe the invisibility of the plight of the working class in New York was enough to hide us in plain site, but a Tale of Two Cities couldn’t be a match for The Orgasming of Two Women.

There is a legend that my panties are still out there somewhere, waiting for the tarps to descend once again upon the world and a sad junior and free-spirited Public Safety employee to find shelter beneath them.